Winter's Banner
by Cerulean.Phoenix7
Summary: He considers a great many things in his solitude; among them are dragons, deception and the change of seasons.


Winter's Banner

A/N: This is set post 2.10 "Valar Morghulis" as Tyrion takes stock of the Seven Kingdoms and the shape of things to come. As I have not read the novels yet, this interpretation is solely based on the events of the series (S1 and S2).

Thanks to Uroboros75 for the beta work and for ironing out a few of the wrinkles in this piece :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of the associated characters.

* * *

The day is hot and humid, drenched in the bitter sweat of overworked men and servants. The world is reaching for those last fruits of summer, exertion taking all the remaining strength that it cares to give.

The long summer is ending, the final pages of its tale worn razor thin. These days, Tyrion Lannister decides over a cup of Arbor wine, are a mere prelude to the other evils marching on the doorstep of the Seven Kingdoms. Though he is not one for things of a more supernatural bent, he is certainly one to recognize a threat when it dares a glimpse from its refuge. There are shadows lurking beneath the weary eyes of men, carved there by nightmares of things long thought lost, and others rather left forgotten.

War is a tiresome business, and he hates how it fatigues so many in as crucial a time as this, where all their strength would be needed. The winds betray the summer mood, harboring icy reminders from the North of the approaching autumn, the steed of winter; they serve as a whip to the willful ignorance of those more focused on matters of state and coin.

Tyrion has never had much interest in the nature or spoils of their game, of which the victor bears more blood than bounty. His interest lies in the moves, the arrangement of the pieces over the lands. He enjoys watching them bicker and squabble, deciphering each move down to the simple motions of steps and shouts.

He is tucked away from the chaos of it all in his quaint room, where books serve as seats and the like. The room is a double-edged sword in Tyrion's lifestyle; he may be sheltered from scrutiny, but he is also sheltered from the field of play. If he is to follow the game of thrones, he must be at forefront, witness to the smallest details of these twisted dealings. While his nephew Joffrey sits upon his throne with the crown upon his puny head, the men under his command do battle with House Stark and their sworn allies.

_So this is the cost of loyalty, _Tyrion thinks as he runs a finger along his scar. It trails over his face, from crown to chin in a sharp line that puckers at the edges. The color is a vile brown, tainted with the crimson of his blood. Everywhere he looks, blood pools in the streets and on the lands of Westeros, spilled by the hands of every House as they are drawn one by one into this lethal game.

Tyrion knows that his fortune had been plentiful that night on the shores of Blackwater Bay, making his stand before the Mud Gate. Had he been unlucky, his fate may have resembled that of Ned Stark.

He sets his cup of wine down beside him and reaches for a book, one describing the growth and physical structures of dragons. Their illustrated bodies are an exquisite design, wrought from ancient diagrams of power and prowess. They are fiery beasts, deadly when unleashed upon the unaware. He parts the pages with the tip of his index finger, allowing them to billow out in the musty air as a horse whines in the streets below.

Before him are scripts on the subject of dragon fire, which holds a particular curiosity for him. A relentless inferno once unleashed, this fire is no product of torches and sparks; this is something much more powerful that is woven into the very nature of dragons themselves.

Evidently, few have been fortunate enough to study it at close range, and those that have did not study it for long.

The majority of the text describes the damage done by dragon fire, most notably the hell that was brought down upon the fortress of Harrenhal, which lies unprotected from the sky. A fortress impregnable from below, but open from above; in retrospect, it is easy to denounce Harren the Black's design as folly, but it wasn't every day that dragons soared in without a raven to announce their coming.

If only dragons were the beasts that men needed to hide from now. In these times, the real monsters are the men in the shadows with daggers nestled within their cloaks, and shifty alliances wrought in dishonesty. There are shadows in the court, whispers of deception that snake between the skirts and shields of the high lords and ladies that pay no heed.

Tyrion is no such character. Secrets are a business he happily toils in, if only for the personal satisfaction of outwitting those in King's Landing that would sooner see him in the dungeons of the Red Keep instead of its courts.

He turns a page, the parchment crinkling against his fingers. A sketch of a fierce dragon covers the next page, wreathed in anger and fire that he feels is slightly misplaced, as are all impressions.

Impressions are why he's had to keep Shae out of sight, away from the scrutiny that would bring her harm. She, of course, fiercely denies it and has proudly showed him the dagger that she keeps laced to her right calf beneath her gown. He still smiles at the notion.

He thinks that the impressions the people concerning this war are of a similar nature, mixed with the drink of valor and honor where none shall be found once winter makes its entrance. The harshness of the winter years makes all men, highborn and low, of the same House, a House known as survival. The servants fight with the knights, the whores contend with the noble ladies and the kings try to keep every little thing in their realms from falling apart. For a time, they succeed, but eventually, everything decays, at which point it is every man for himself.

Tyrion could count the winters he has survived on his fingers, but he has seen enough to know that the noble Houses always survive, whether it is through bribery, deceit, or plain barbarianism. It is rarely a matter of mind when it comes to survival.

Joffrey, though young, is not completely unscarred from the wickedness of winter. Born in the midst of snow and frost, the first few years of his life were cold and bitter, a reflection of the man that he has now become. But he was not solely to blame; he was more of a puppet than a king, more often than not dealing out the suggestions whispered in his ear by the mother that he seeks to defy, the sister that Tyrion has little affection for.

It will be a frightening day when winter at last descends upon King's Landing, a day when Joffrey will learn a great deal about chaos. He is so accustomed to having the reins of control in his little arrogant hands that he believes that they will rest there permanently.

If the boy truly thought as much, then he is sorely mistaken. Once nature takes control, it will be the will of the masses that wrench the reins from Joffrey's grip, that inconvenient and stubborn will to live. Tyrion knows that events will play out just as he pictures them, having seen similar occurrences before; the life of all men, it seems, is governed by a cruel cycle of illusory peace and bounty, followed by a very real nightmare of chill and disease and starvation.

Tyrion chose not to share his meat and mead with anyone, while the others tried to laugh away the cold with what little strength they still had in their bodies. This act would not last much longer, however. Half the men who had eaten in that tavern all those years ago had probably died during those cold years, and a similar story shall be told after this winter passes. Though Tyrion suspects that perhaps more will join the roster of the lost and misplaced. With war ravaging the lands and deception marking every noble House, it's a wonder that any of them are still alive.

Of course, some of them still have a spit of intelligence in them, probably their one redeeming quality. Joffrey, on the other hand, has failed to show anything that Tyrion could classify as redeeming.

Not that it will matter in the near future.

Tyrion closes the book with a resigned sigh, the image of the dragon etched into his mind as clearly as it was etched in the pages. The dragons, now vanished, are only a series of records and fables, the latter of which hold no interest for Tyrion.

He's heard the rumors of what is lying in wait for winter's horn, waiting for the signal to march upon the lands of Westeros under the cover of darkness. He pays these rumors no attention, and they pass right by him and carry on to the next wayward soul that's looking for a piece of gossip to chew on.

Once, when he was young, he was taught to fear darkness and avoid it under the claim that it was brimming with terrors. Even young, Tyrion Lannister was no fool and dismissed such a notion. The night was full of darkness and nothing more.

Winter was much the same, he reflected, though he suspects that many others would argue otherwise and claim that there are indeed things lurking beneath the shadows of snow and ice. With a brief glance to the only window in the tower he had been confined to, Tyrion suspects that like all those living in this land of Westeros, he will be finding out the truth of it all soon enough.

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
